


Winter Ficlets

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gloves, Jealous John, John in a Sheet, M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Cooking, Sherlock is a science nerd, Snowball Fight, Suit Porn, Wedding Rings, Winter, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: A collection of winter and holiday ficlets.(Each ficlet is a stand-alone. Thanks to missdaviswrites for posting the prompts!)





	1. Wish List

Sherlock gnawed at his thumbnail, staring at the blank piece of paper that lay in front of him on the kitchen table. It shouldn’t be so difficult. Tiny children did this all the time. Let’s make lists, John had suggested, of what we each want for Christmas.

Sherlock had no idea what to write. He really needed nothing. On the occasions that he did want something – a new shirt, a fine bottle of wine, a luxurious soap – he bought it himself on the spur of the moment.

He glanced across the table at John, wondering what he might like as a gift. Leatherbound notebook? Mont Blanc pen? The latest iPhone?

John looked up at him and smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, as he always did.

After all these years together, after all the intimate touches and whispered words of passion, the fights and squabbles and shared adventures, there seemed little point in giving each other trinkets. Their devotion was imprinted on each other’s bodies, invisibly tattooed through sex and tears and laughter, hearts racing in danger, feet flying in pursuit, fingers curving around thighs in the middle of the night.

Still, if it made John happy to exchange gifts, he would play along. Sherlock scribbled on the paper and folded it in half.

“Finished?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll read yours first.” John held out his hand.

Sherlock reluctantly placed the square of paper into his palm.

John eagerly opened the note, then paused. “Black socks,” he read aloud. He glanced up. “That’s it?”

“It’s all I can think of. I really don’t need anything.”

John folded the paper again, amused. “For a genius, you’re really not very imaginative.”

“Well, what did you ask for, then?” Sherlock huffed.

John hesitated, finally pushing the folded note across the table. “I wrote down the one thing that I truly want. A very big thing.”

Something in John’s voice made Sherlock scan his face. He was nervous, apprehensive. Sherlock furrowed his brow, sliding the paper closer. Was he asking for something extravagant? A sleek sports car or a trip to Machu Picchu?

“You’re not obligated, of course,” John blurted out as Sherlock unfolded the paper.

The crinkle in Sherlock’s nose slowly unfurled as he absorbed the two words printed on the paper. His heart skipped a beat, his fingers quaking.

He could feel John gazing at him, waiting breathlessly.

Sherlock read the wish list again.

Marry me

“Is it… too much to ask for?” John asked, his voice quavering.

Sherlock blinked, trying to regain his composure. He cleared his throat. “I need to see my list again.”

John passed him the paper, biting his bottom lip.

Sherlock scratched out black socks, writing something new underneath. He slid the paper back to John.

John slowly unfolded it, anxiety flitting across his features. Within moments, he relaxed, relieved.

“Isn’t it funny,” Sherlock said softly, reaching across the table to take John’s hand into his own, “that we asked for the same thing?”


	2. Snowball Fight/Winter Sports

“Don’t do it.” Sherlock extends his arm, his palm lifted half in a warning, half in a bargaining plea. “John, think about what you’re doing.”

John’s mouth curves up in an evil grin. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” He packs the snow in his hands even tighter, making sure the powdery ball will hold.

“It was just a joke.” Sherlock laughs nervously, taking several slow steps backwards, bartering for time. He leaves large footprints in the freshly fallen snow that blankets the small park. It’s midnight, the city sleeping, their confrontation witnessed only by a stray cat.

John shivers, icy chunks of the snowball that Sherlock had thrown at him from behind sliding down his spine. He stalks forward, calculating speed, distance, and trajectory. He lets the snowball fly at Sherlock’s upper chest, relishing how the snow explodes upon impact, coating Sherlock’s hair and face in a spectacular shower of white.

Sherlock stands in dignified humiliation as John laughs gleefully, sliding over to his victim.

“Now we’re even,” John says with satisfaction, brushing white flakes from Sherlock’s shoulders.

There is a swift blur of motion, and John suddenly finds himself staring up at the night sky, the breath knocked from his lungs.

“Are we?” Sherlock breathes, straddling John’s hips, a playfully dangerous glint in his eyes.

John knows that glint, that slyly seductive gleam signifying his desire for a bit of rough foreplay. John smiles back, his voice low. “It’s more games you want, is it?”

He twists, nearly loosening Sherlock’s hold, but his grip is strong. They wrestle, huffing out short laughs and grunts, rolling in the snow, roughhousing like two Huskies vying for the role of alpha dog.

John finally submits, his wrists pinned above his head, snow biting into his lower back where his shirt is rucked up. Sherlock looks down at him, droplets glistening in his dark hair and lashes, their ragged breaths puffs of white suspended in the air.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve had you on your back,” Sherlock murmurs, grinding his pelvis suggestively against John’s.

John stifles a groan, responding despite his damp jeans and the freezing temperature. “Sort of adds new meaning to ‘snow balls,’” he manages to quip.

Sherlock smiles at the bad pun. “Time to go home then, and warm up.” He rises to his feet and offers John his hand.

They wend their way to Baker Street, stumble-grope up the stairs, shedding layers, nuzzling cold skin, falling into bed for more winter games.


	3. Peppermint

John gazed at Sherlock across the restaurant table, glad to see him wolfing down forkfuls of pasta. It was rare that he ate so heartily, but they had just spent the day running around the city for a case. 

As Sherlock paid the bill, John grabbed two peppermint candies from a bowl placed near the door. John handed one to Sherlock and they unwrapped the cellophane, popping the red and white mints into their mouths.

They stepped outside into the brisk evening, the street bustling with shoppers, trees wrapped in strands of sparkling lights, and store windows filled with colorful holiday displays.

John sucked on the candy, idly noticing how cool his breath felt when he inhaled. He tried it again, breathing in deeper, the sudden peppery burn tickling his nose, almost making him sneeze. 

Sherlock noticed, sliding his eyes over to John. “That would be the 2-isopropyl-5-methylcyclohexanol.”

John dabbed at his nose, confused. “What?” 

“The proper name for menthol, a compound found in peppermint oil.”

“What about it?”

“Fascinating chemical.” Sherlock strolled with his hands in his pockets, rolling the round candy in his mouth. 

John resigned himself to a lecture.

“In very simple terms, there are sensory receptors in our mouths that respond to menthol -- but interestingly, these same receptors also respond to low temperatures,” Sherlock explained. “The receptors can’t distinguish between true cold and menthol; they simply signal ‘cold,’ thus making mint feel cold.”

“Hmm,” John pondered this fact as they turned onto a less populated street.

“In fact,” Sherlock continued, warming to his subject, “the receptor of interest, a protein called TRPM8 -- which stands for transient receptor potential cation channel, subfamily M, member 8 -- is an ion channel which, when open, allows sodium ions and calcium ions to enter --”

“Sherlock--” John interrupted, “come here.”

John wanted Sherlock to stop talking, and he also wanted to kiss him, finding his scientific enthusiasm endearing. He pulled Sherlock into a darkened doorway, the kind of alcove perfect for dashing out of the rain, having a quick smoke, or conducting experimental kisses to determine exactly how menthol affects the quality of semi-public snogging.

He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pushing him up against the wall, capturing his mouth. Sugar, mint, sweet lips, cool breath, warm skin, tingly tongues.

“Mmm, quite nice,” John determined, finally easing back. “What sensory receptors are activated now?”

Sherlock smiled, cupping John’s face and gently biting his lower lip. “Primal ones.”


	4. Cozy

Mrs. Hudson dried her hands on hands on the dish towel, looking around the kitchen with a sigh. She had washed the dishes and scrubbed the sink, swept the lino, hoovered the rug, and tidied the messes of papers and magazines as much as she dared. She certainly wasn’t anyone’s housekeeper, but the boys had been gone so much lately that she felt a little cleaning was in order.

Sherlock and John worked too hard, she tutted to herself while refolding the plaid blanket draped over the back of John’s armchair. Here it was, nearly Christmas, and they didn’t have one single decoration in the flat. Instead, they were out chasing murderers and thieves. It was just so dreary. 

She tapped her chin with her finger, forming a plan. She checked her watch. Yes, she would have time. They never got home before 10 o’clock these days. Humming to herself, she bustled downstairs and headed to straight to the storage closet.

* * * * * * * * * *

John turned up his coat collar against the wind, waiting for Sherlock as he paid the cabbie. It was late, nearly midnight. He stifled a yawn as he fished the key to the flat out of his pocket.

Cold air still clinging to their shoulders, they trudged up the stairs, too tired to talk. John pushed open the door and took a few steps in, then stopped suddenly, causing Sherlock to bump into him.

“Oh… my…” John breathed out in awe. 

The sitting room had been transformed -- the fireplace mantle had been wrapped in fairy lights and green garland, more twinkling lights framed the windows, ornaments hung from every nook and cranny, fresh sprigs of pine and berries sprouted from vases, and a sprig of mistletoe dangled from the door leading to the kitchen. A low fire burned in the fireplace, bathing the room in warm light. 

“It’s so cozy now,” John said, lightly running his fingers over the pine branches, releasing a gentle waft of fragrance.

Sherlock walked over to the kitchen table where a very fine bottle of single malt scotch whisky and two heavy glasses waited. He picked up the bottle to admire it and smiled. “Bless you, Mrs. Hudson,” he murmured. 

They hung up their coats and slipped off their shoes, settling into their chairs with contented sighs. They sipped the scotch and compared notes about the long day, finally lapsing into a companionable silence.

Sherlock stretched out his legs, and John mirrored his movement. Sherlock extended one leg further, as did John. Holding John’s gaze, Sherlock moved his foot an increment more, touching the tip of John’s toe, black sock meeting brown. 

Sherlock moved his foot, sliding his toes over John’s, sending a secret message he hoped John would understand.

John smiled then leaned forward, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee. In the dancing shadows of the firelight, he slid his palm to his thigh, leaning closer.


	5. Christmas Cards

John sifted through the mail as he climbed the stairs to the flat, mentally noting what to keep and what to toss. Bill, junk mail, some official looking letter for Sherlock, bill, Christmas card from Molly, junk mail, card addressed to Sherlock.

John paused on the landing, holding the heavy white envelope that was obviously very expensive stationary. He turned it over, looking for a return address. There was none.

Perplexed, he entered the flat. Sherlock was at the kitchen table hunched over the microscope, absorbed in his work. John took off his coat and tried to look casual as he wandered into the kitchen.

“You've got a letter,” John announced, “and a Christmas card, I think.”

“Mm.” Sherlock didn't even look up.

John stood awkwardly, then stared at the white envelope again. Something about it bothered him, but he wasn't sure why. He continued to hold it, trying to examine it the way Sherlock would. The handwriting was neat, the strokes confident, maybe a feminine slant to it. The ink was deep black, perhaps from a fountain pen. He lifted the paper to his nose, sniffing the envelope as subtly as he could. Was there a trace of perfume?

“You can open it if you're so curious.”

John jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He blushed, stammering. “Oh -- no, I wasn't -- it's just, there's no return address.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the microscope. “And?”

 _And it looks like it’s from a woman,_ he finished silently. He felt foolish, not wanting to admit that he was jealous of a piece of stationary. “And nothing.”

He dropped the card on the table, noticing the graceful strength of Sherlock's fingers as he adjusted the dials of the microscope, the sharp jut of his shoulder blades through the dark blue shirt, the straining fabric of his trousers stretched over his muscular thighs.

Jesus, he had to stop this obsession. John walked quickly to his chair and sat down, glad his back was to the kitchen so that Sherlock was not in his line of sight. He was smitten, enamored, aching. If only he had the courage to tell Sherlock how he felt, if he could just touch him, taste those perfect lips just once -- if only he could find the words.

As John gnawed unhappily on his thoughts, he was surprised to hear the distinct sound of an envelope ripping. So Sherlock decided to open the card after all. John held his breath, listening for some sort of reaction. There was, at most, a faint sniff.

Soon after, Sherlock rose from his chair and went to his bedroom, shutting the door. John peered around his chair. The card lay on the table. Against his better judgment, he crept into the kitchen and stole a glance at the note. His heart sank. Embossed on the front was an extravagant red W full of flourishes and elegant sweeping lines. The Woman.

Sherlock's door abruptly opened and he strode into the room, stopping when he saw John staring at the card.

“It's from her, isn't it?” John blurted out. He knew he sounded accusing, but didn't care.

Sherlock frowned. “Her who?”

“ _Her,_ ” John snapped impatiently. “The Woman. Irene Adler.”

Sherlock’s face contorted in disbelief. “Why would you think that?”

John jutted a finger at the card. “The fancy font? The perfume? The giant W?”

Sherlock stared at John with a dumbfounded look, then burst out laughing. “Oh, God, you have it all wrong.”

John clenched his fist, unamused. His jaw twitched.

“John, you amaze me,” Sherlock sighed, his eyes full of mirth. He placed two fingers on the card and spun it 180 degrees. “That's not a W, it's an M. It's from Mycroft.”

John felt his face grow hot as he stared in humiliation at the now obvious M.

Sherlock grinned at him. “Mycroft does tend to overdo things.”

John wanted to sink through the floor and vanish.

Sherlock's grin slowly faded, replaced with a more serious expression. “Were you really jealous?”

John lifted his eyes, his wounded pride fighting with his desire to tell Sherlock everything. He couldn't answer.

Sherlock took a step closer, no longer laughing. His expression changed again, suddenly unsure. “If you were jealous… I'd be flattered.”

John looked at him more closely, finding a hesitant vulnerability in Sherlock eyes that he'd never seen before. John's heart beat a little faster. This was it, this was his chance. _Say it, say it now._

“Sherlock --” John halted, afraid, his verbal brain freezing. He stopped thinking, tipping toward Sherlock, crossing the distance between them.

Sherlock wasn't drawing away, John registered, but was leaning down, their lips inches apart, the room fading away to the narrow focus of their warm skin and breath and searching eyes.

John’s voice was a hoarse whisper, a deep confession. “I want to kiss you.”

Sherlock lifted a tentative hand to John's cheek, fingertips dusting to his jaw. “I want you to.”


	6. Wrapped Up & Food and Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I unintentionally filled two prompts with this one. Enjoy!

Sherlock woke first, yawning, stretching, craving coffee. He looked at John who was still asleep, curled on his side, his bare shoulder exposed, the knobs of his upper spine protruding through his winter-pale skin. 

Sherlock wanted to place his mouth over each vertebra, but he resisted, opting to let John sleep. Besides, he’d had quite a mouthful of John last night, he recalled with a satisfied smirk. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the wood floor cold beneath his feet. Goosebumps prickled his bare skin and he hurriedly pulled on pyjama bottoms and wrapped himself in his tartan dressing gown, adding a snug pair of woolen socks.

He would make the coffee today, although he preferred the way John made it. He ought to do more things for John, he thought while rummaging for the coffee on the kitchen shelf. It was almost Christmas, after all, and one ought to do nice things for one’s significant other. 

In fact, he would make a warm breakfast for John. An omelet oozing with cheese, toast glistening with marmalade, coffee swirling with cream. He started cooking, whisking eggs and grating cheese, measuring out coffee, setting out butter, jam, and bread.

Breakfast was coming along nicely when John’s voice broke his reverie. “Good morning.” John sounded groggy, still waking up.

“Morning,” Sherlock replied without looking at him, concentrating on sliding the omelet from the pan onto the plate. 

He turned, presenting John with the plate in one hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the other. He smiled, then his eyebrows rose in surprise.

John, with gloriously rumpled hair, was wrapped haphazardly in the white bed sheet, clearly naked underneath. “Oh,” John waved dismissively at his choice of garment, “couldn’t find my dressing gown.” He craned his neck forward, eyeing the food. “Is that for me?”

“Er, yes. Breakfast.” Sherlock stared at the sleep-flushed skin of John’s neck and chest, collarbones framed enticingly by the sheet. He managed to set the plate and mug on the table, pushing them towards John.

“This is lovely. Thank you,” John said admiringly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. 

Sherlock sat across from him, warming his hands on his coffee mug. He watched John eat, his eyes drawn to one pink nipple peeking from behind a fold of fabric. He delicately adjusted his pyjama bottoms that had grown a bit tight in the groin. 

“It’s delicious,” John praised. He lifted his coffee mug and took a sip, the sheet slipping from his forearm. Sherlock wanted to run his hand along the muscles of his arm, feel the soft golden hair under his fingertips.

John ate, teeth biting into sticky toast, jaws masticating, fingers curling around knife and fork. Sherlock gazed at him hungrily, wanting to pull John up from his chair and slide the sheet off one of his shoulders, letting it hang precariously, mysteries still partially veiled. One hip exposed, one sturdy thigh and ropy calf revealed, naked waist waiting for his palm to glide across and down, cupping one round, tight buttock.

“Good coffee,” John added with a satisfied smile as he leaned back in his chair, finished.

“John.”

“Mm?”

“I’m going to unwrap you from that sheet, take you back to bed, and devour you slowly.”

This time John raised his eyebrows in surprise.. 

Sherlock rose from his chair and crossed over to John, taking him by the hand. John stood facing Sherlock, a smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock lifted a drape of sheet and let it fall, his hand skimming down John’s side, curving around his hip, his mouth softly covering John’s, tasting of coffee and orange marmalade. John freed the knot at Sherlock’s waist, the sheet whispering off his shoulder, pooling to the floor, the dressing gown sighing open, hands roving.


	7. Warming Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a continuation of the previous Snowball Fight ficlet.

“God, your hands are cold.” John shivers under Sherlock’s touch, the bed sheets bunched messily at their feet.

“Your arse is a block of ice,” Sherlock growls back, nibbling John’s earlobe and squeezing John’s decidedly chilly bum.

“If you hadn’t thrown that first snowball,” John reminds him, pinching his icy arse in return, “we’d be nice and warm, wouldn’t we?”

“You didn’t have to retaliate.”

“Of course I did! You know what they say,” John’s eyes gleam devilishly. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” He curls frozen fingers around Sherlock’s cock, making him jump and shrivel.

“That was uncalled for,” Sherlock pouts, covering his privates defensively.

“Sorry, sorry,” John laughs, pulling the blankets up to their shoulders and tugging Sherlock to his chest. “That was mean.”

“It was.”

John hooks a leg over Sherlock’s thigh, nestling their warmest bits together. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You can’t.”

John kisses him, slowly rocking his hips against Sherlock’s. “I bet I can.”

Their body heat co-mingles, warming the air under the covers. John slides his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. “Warming up yet?” he finally murmurs.

“Not quite.”

John pretends he can’t see the lazy lust in Sherlock’s eyes, can’t feel Sherlock’s growing arousal against his belly. “Hmm, I’ll have to work a little harder.”

John tips Sherlock onto his back then disappears under the covers, trailing his lips down Sherlock’s chest, burrowing lower, his body a curved lump between the tent of Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock tries to resist sounding pleased, but gives up pretending to be mad, groaning out words of encouragement, his fingers in John’s hair. His back arches, knees tighten, and he hears himself moaning out John’s name.

John eventually emerges from beneath the duvet, grinning, his face flushed, and kisses Sherlock’s lax mouth, plush and pinked.

Sherlock lays back blissfully against the pillows, drawing circles on John’s back with one hand.

“Warmer?” John asks, brushing his fingers through the coarse hair on Sherlock’s chest.

“Warmer.”


	8. All Dressed Up

Sherlock scrutinized his reflection in the mirror, fussing with his tie. God, how he hated ties. But as John had pointed out repeatedly, the occasion demanded it. It wasn’t every day that one was invited to an earl’s holiday fete as a thank you for recovering several priceless pieces of stolen art.

Satisfied with the knot, he smoothed the black silk tie and inspected his suit: midnight blue wool trousers topped by a deep navy velvet jacket with satin silk shawl lapels, a silk-covered single button fastening, and jetted pockets with silk trim. Beneath that was a matching velvet double-breasted waistcoat with lapels. His favorite details were the waistcoat’s eight silk-covered buttons set in double columns. A tonal navy shirt and patent leather shoes completed the look.

Not bad, he had to admit. Unorthodox yet passably traditional.

He briefly wondered what John was wearing. Something tweedy, he imagined, suitable for an author and rugged ex-soldier.

There was an impatient knock at the bedroom door. “Are you still primping in there?” John called out.

Sherlock checked his hair, pushing back one errant curl that tended to dangle over his forehead.

“Almost ready.”

With a final adjustment of his cuffs, he strode to the door and opened it with a flourish, unable to tamp down the urge to preen a little.

“So, John, do you think the earl and countess will approve?” He held out his arms to show off the fine cut of his suit.

John walked closer, stepping into the light of the narrow hallway. The smirk on Sherlock’s face morphed into an expression of wonderment, his hands drifting down to his sides and his mouth forming a small O.

John looked simply stunning. Modern. Stylish. He sported a black three-piece suit with a velvet collar and matching buttons, sleek waistcoat, and a white cotton shirt with a spear tab collar and French cuffs. The finishing touches included a gold silk knit tie, jaunty white pocket square, and black patent leather and suede Oxfords. His hair, grown out a bit longer than usual, was swept back rakishly, the silver strands highlighted by the dark suit.

“You look –” Sherlock struggled to find a word that would do justice, “breathtaking.”

John gazed back at him, equally entranced. “And you look… intoxicating.”

They gravitated toward each other, utterly enthralled.

“When did you get this?” Sherlock asked, touching John’s sleeve.

“Business has been good. I decided to treat myself to something special.” John smoothed his palms up and down Sherlock’s velvet covered chest. “How are we going to get through this evening without ripping each others’ clothes off?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock replied, fingering John’s soft lapels, already imagining sliding the jacket off John’s shoulders and running his hands over the silky back of his waistcoat.

John envisioned drawing out the length of Sherlock’s tie with one long, lascivious pull. “Seeing you in a tie is giving me a hard on.”

“Already there.”

John lifted up on his toes to place a lingering kiss on Sherlock’s lips, smiling as he spoke a wicked thought out loud. “This velvet feels so nice… I think you ought to wear it when I have you spread out on our bed tonight.”

Sherlock smiled back. “Only if you wear that waistcoat with your sleeves rolled up.”

“Oh, I see,” John grinned. “I think we’ve discovered a fashion fetish.”

They loitered in the hallway, snogging, stroking fine fabric, losing track of time until the phone in Sherlock’s pocket vibrated loudly, breaking the spell.

Irritated, Sherlock snatched out his phone and glared at the screen. “Car’s here.”

“Damn.”

They straightened their jackets and ties, smoothed their hair, and cleared their throats.

John led the way down the stairs and into the black car sent courtesy of Mycroft. They settled into the back seat, perfectly dignified.

At the party they mingled, nibbled on hors d'oeuvres, and sipped champagne. Sherlock even managed to behave himself for once, at least for an hour or two.

Standing near the Christmas tree at midnight, Sherlock leaned over, dropping rich baritone words into John’s ear that made his skin tingle, a tantalizing silk and velvet promise. “Let’s go home and fuck…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the suits at [this lovely link on my Tumblr.](https://221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com/post/168484183603/sherlock-december-ficlets-all-dressed-up)  
> (Fixed the link, I hope)
> 
> And thanks to @sherlockunravelled from whom I borrowed the descriptions of the suits because I know nothing about men’s fashion terminology.


	9. Mittens or Gloves

John climbed the stairs to the dark flat, tired and out of sorts after working a long shift at the surgery. Not exactly the most relaxing way to spend the day before Christmas Eve.

His mind a million miles away, his foot slipped on something soft on the top step. Cursing, he grabbed at the handrail to steady himself. He stooped down and snatched up a pair of black leather gloves -- Sherlock's. They must have dropped out of his coat pocket as he galloped down the stairs like a madman.

John sighed and stuffed the gloves into the back pocket of his jeans, annoyed that Sherlock's carelessness had nearly caused him to tumble down the stairs and break his neck.

 _You're being overly dramatic, John._ Sherlock's voice played in John's head, and John half smiled, knowing he was exaggerating the peril of the situation. He often carried on internal conversations this way, imagining what Sherlock would say. They'd known each other long enough that his ability to predict Sherlock’s responses was uncannily accurate.

He switched on the lamp and fairy lights and started the fire, instantly bathing the room in warmth and easing his mood. He scrolled through his phone, finding a station that played classic Christmas songs: Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby.

He poured himself a drink and sank into his chair, stretching out his legs. A lump poked at his bum and he wedged the gloves out of his pocket. He held them for a moment, admiring the high-quality leather and fine stitching. Only the best for Sherlock Holmes.

 _Of course. I'm not the commonwealth,_ Sherlock’s posh voice reminded him.

The gloves had warmed with John's body heat and gave off the rich scent of leather. He brought them closer to his nose, picking up faint traces of cologne and cigarettes. It was the sort of warm scent that you wanted to wrap yourself in, like a cozy wool blanket on a snowy day.

John set his drink to the side and turned the gloves in his hands, caressing the buttery grain with his thumbs.

_Go ahead, try them on._

John balked at the thought. Wearing the gloves would cross some sort of personal boundary, wouldn't it?

_You know you're dying to. I don't mind._

He held the left glove, then tentatively slid his fingers into the opening at the wrist. The lining was plush, the softest cashmere. He pushed his fingers in deeper, his chest pulsing with a guilty thrill. There was something intimate, almost penetrative about the gesture. He slid the supple leather over his hand, a second skin.

_Mmm, nice, isn't it?_

It was an odd sensation, as if Sherlock's hand now covered his own, or he had magically melted into Sherlock's body. He slowly inserted his right hand into the other glove and flexed his fingers, another waft of rich leather greeting him. He could see the lines where each of Sherlock's long finger joints had creased the glove, his own hands much smaller.

Sherlock's hands were so big, so elegant. They were the type of giant hands that could cradle a person’s entire head during a searing kiss…

“Ah, so that's where they are.”

John nearly jumped out of his chair at the sound of Sherlock's actual voice, the gloves still on his hands. Sherlock was looking at him with mild amusement.

John quickly pulled them off. “I was just -- I found these on the stairs. You must have dropped them.” His face was burning as he thrust the limp gloves at Sherlock.

Sherlock took them. “Thank you.” He hesitated for a moment. “So… you liked them?”

“Um, yeah. I've never had such a nice pair. I just… sort of tried them on.” John scratched the back of his head, trying not to look at Sherlock's gorgeous hands. “They’re really… luxurious.”

“Ah. Yes, they are. A worthwhile indulgence.” He slipped them back into his pocket and turned away to hang up his coat.

_Now I know exactly what to get you for Christmas. Mahogany will suit you, I think._

John flicked his eyes up, uncertain for a second if the voice he’d heard was real or imagined. “Do you ever find it odd --” he started.

“-- that we know what the other is thinking?” Sherlock finished. “Not really. We’ve lived together a long time.”

“Practically married,” John laughed, then winced at his choice of words.

It didn't matter, because at that moment Sherlock walked toward him and smiled warmly, beautifully, the smile that was given just for him, and John smiled back, wholly, unconditionally, certain that Christmas would be particularly memorable this year.


	10. Traveling

John readjusts the straps of the two heavy overnight bags, his shoulders aching, and follows Sherlock up the narrow stairs of the inn. John can’t help but notice that Sherlock carries a much lighter load -- the room key, the only room left in the inn, as it happens -- the silver fob glinting in the light.

They had been visiting Sherlock’s parents for Christmas and were driving back to London when a thick fog set in, the type of dense fog that made the road slick in the near-freezing temperature.

They agreed to stop for the night in the nearest village, not wanting to risk an accident or hit a stray flock of sheep wandering across the road. Now they were here, climbing the creaky wooden stairs, about to spend the night in the same small room.

“Here we are. The Lilac Room,” Sherlock announces, coming to a stop in front of the last door at the end of the hallway. He glances at John, amused. “I’m sure it will be delightfully floral.”

He fits the key into the lock and lets the door swing open, then flicks on the overhead light. They stare in silence, taking in every shade of purple, violet, and lilac imaginable, their gazes simultaneously coming to rest on the one bed in the room.

“Oh.” John manages to state the obvious. “There’s only one bed…”

“So it seems.”

They stand awkwardly in the doorway, then Sherlock shakes himself into action. “Well. Beggars can’t be choosers.” He strides into the room and peers into the attached bathroom, working off his gloves.

John struggles through the doorway with their bags and drops them onto a chair. They busy themselves with hanging up coats and glancing out the window and arranging shoes neatly by the door.

They take turns brushing their teeth and changing into soft pyjamas. Finally they come to a stop, the bed looming large in the room. It’s late and they’re both tired.

John pulls at his ear. “Look, I can sleep on the floor.”

“No, that’s ridiculous. You’ll ruin your back.”

They cast furtive glances at the bed. It looks plush and inviting, and big enough for two people. The practical thing to do is just share it, catch a few hours of sleep, and be on their way in the morning.

John clears his throat. “Then I’ll take the left side.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock switches off the light and they lift the covers, the mattress bouncing as they climb self-consciously into their respective sides and settle under the fresh, cool sheets.

Sherlock stares at the ceiling, afraid to move. He can feel John next to him, breathing softly, also on his back. A slight dip in the bed tilts their hips close together, mere inches apart.

Even though they’ve shared a flat for years, this may be the most intimate space they’ve ever shared. He feels he should say something to neutralize the tension rippling between them, but he can’t think of a thing.

John can’t help but notice the proximity of Sherlock’s long legs, and he wonders if his feet are warm or cold. Probably cold. He’s tempted to nudge his own foot closer to find out, but doesn’t dare. They breathe, lying still. Gradually, their eyes become heavy, the need for sleep tugging at them.

It’s Sherlock who turns first, rolling onto his side, facing away from John, drawing up his knees. John is aware of the movement, although he’s nearly asleep himself. Without thinking, he follows suit, turning onto his side, facing not the wall, but Sherlock’s back. He gazes sleepily at the cotton t-shirt stretched across Sherlock’s winged shoulder blades, the slope of his arm, the rise of his hip.

John bends his knees to match the pattern of Sherlock’s legs, the dip in the bed tilting him toward Sherlock. Just a small roll forward would slot their bodies together, spoon cradling spoon.

Sherlock shifts slightly, one foot extending back toward John. John adjusts his leg, the top of his foot brushing the bottom of Sherlock’s sole. So they’re cold, John thinks hazily. He nestles his feet under Sherlock’s, offering to share their heat.

Sherlock doesn’t draw away. Instead, he nudges his hips back, his thighs finding the warmth of John’s legs. They breathe, their nerves glowing where their bodies make contact, and John gives into gravity, his chest melting against Sherlock’s back, his pelvis nestling into Sherlock’s bum, his arm looping over Sherlock's side.

Sherlock relaxes against John's comforting weight, a sensation he seems to have known all his life, and they both sigh softly.

Their heads sink further into their deep pillows, and John’s nose presses lightly against Sherlock’s nape. He breathes in the scent of Sherlock’s skin, the smell of home and familiarity and forever, and they sleep more soundly and securely than they have in years.


	11. New Year

“So, what were the highlights of the past year?” John asks while brushing his teeth, glancing at Sherlock in the bathroom mirror. It’s almost midnight on New Year’s Eve and they’re getting ready for bed, already yawning before the clock strikes 12.

“Hmm, the Headless Haunting comes to mind.” Sherlock pulls his pyjama t-shirt over his head, messing his hair. “So does the Case of the Wailing Cat. You really need to work on those titles.”

John shrugs and spits into the sink. He’s in too good of a mood to be bothered by Sherlock’s criticism. They’d had a quiet dinner out at Angelo’s, the usual pasta and a decent wine, followed by tiramisu. No big parties this year.

“Okay, so those were the top cases. Anything else?” John asks as they walk into the bedroom and lift back the sheets.

Sherlock climbs into bed, concentration written across his face. “The work in Croatia was fascinating. And Bart’s finally upgraded their electron microscope. God, that was long overdue.”

They settle under the covers, their heads propped up on pillows.

John casts him a sidelong glance. “You really can’t think of anything else?”

Sherlock pulls a face. “No… can you?”

“I dunno… maybe getting married?”

“Oh, _that!”_ Sherlock turns to John and grins. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

John rolls his eyes, and Sherlock hooks a lanky leg over John’s, sidling up against him. “Of course it was a highlight. _The_ highlight.”

He lifts John’s left hand with his own, their simple gold bands gleaming in the lamp light.

“I can’t believe we finally did it.” John says softly, interlacing his fingers with Sherlock’s. “You’ve officially been my husband for two whole weeks.”

“I’ve been yours much longer than that.” Sherlock looks up at John, his chest welling with emotion.

“Same,” John smiles, sinking down in the pillows to find Sherlock’s mouth, his fingers cradling his jaw, their lips meeting a gentle caress.

Sherlock draws back slightly, slowly opens his eyes to gaze at John. “Husband,” he murmurs, still getting used to saying the word. He likes it. Loves it.

Outside, the bells toll midnight, ringing in the New Year, new promises, new adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, dear readers, and may you all have a Happy New Year! Thank you for your comments, kudos, and encouragement this year. I hope 2018 will be a year of positive change. Be kind, be brave, and make a difference where you can.


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